I was shuffling through the maze of various tools
- pulling and pushing the sundry objects around on the shelf.
At my feet a circular saw and a tool box overflowing sat;
to my right, cans of paint with color streaked down their sides.
And then - alas - came tumbling from an upper shelf a sign;
it caught my elbow on its way down.
As I retrieved it from the floor, its irony was not lost on me,
for it read: Hard Hat Area.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
wolverine {"wolverine"}
We were wandering {and wondering} down in the very bowels of the museum. Noises straight from Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory's Inventing Room sputtered from under the doors.
For some reason I was being cajoled into following the two anti-navigators on a quest to seek the "hands-on for kids" part of the museum. Perhaps the atmosphere of the museum was seeping into my bones, allowing my to toss my fears by the wayside (or perhaps I forgot them in the second elevator?).
I tried to explain to the two that it looked like the formerly mentioned section of the museum was under renovation. But, no. Of course, we still had to go looking. ("Morgan Being Misled" episode 1 of 2 for the day.)
We passed some maids mopping a hallway. Mental backup plan: we could always grab a mop and start working if anyone looked at us funny.
We passed a case with a stuffed grizzly bear in it. And another one with a wolf in it. I guess the furry animal look is out this season.
I glanced in a room. "Hey, look at this," I called to the two leaders. We all three gawked at a huge python sleeping in a terrarium. Then - utterly predictably with our family - Griffin started trying to scare us by running his finger up our necks. Lexi squealed.
We kept trucking.
Lexi and Griffin marched past another furry animal in a case. I stopped to look. "Ah, a wolverine," I read out loud. I glanced up to find a museum worker bearing down on me. "A wolverine," she said, brusquely. Right. Just like the sign says. Which I can read. And I just did. Out loud. Ah, museum people, you just like to flaunt your knowledge, don't you? (Its okay. I probably would too if I worked in a museum.)
We passed a door that read "DO NOT BLOCK." It was blocked by a fat trash can. So, maybe museum workers just can't read?
... Okay, perhaps not.
We meandered further down the door-lined hallway. We came to an alcove with an Egyptian mummy stuck in it. Seriously, a mummy in the basement of a museum on the same corridor as a stuffed wolverine? Yeah, bet you didn't see that coming, Egyptian. {I actually wasn't expecting it either, so don't half feel bad about it.}
We ended up turning around with the realization - finally! - that the exhibit we were searching for was, wait for this mind-blowing piece of info, closed for renovations.
We traced our steps back. Past the mummy, the wolverine ("the wolverine"), the sleeping python still curled up, the rumbling doors, the unfortunately-out-of-style bear and wolf, and finally back past the mopping maids.
They stopped talking and looked up at us as we trekked past, amused.
For some reason I was being cajoled into following the two anti-navigators on a quest to seek the "hands-on for kids" part of the museum. Perhaps the atmosphere of the museum was seeping into my bones, allowing my to toss my fears by the wayside (or perhaps I forgot them in the second elevator?).
I tried to explain to the two that it looked like the formerly mentioned section of the museum was under renovation. But, no. Of course, we still had to go looking. ("Morgan Being Misled" episode 1 of 2 for the day.)
We passed some maids mopping a hallway. Mental backup plan: we could always grab a mop and start working if anyone looked at us funny.
We passed a case with a stuffed grizzly bear in it. And another one with a wolf in it. I guess the furry animal look is out this season.
I glanced in a room. "Hey, look at this," I called to the two leaders. We all three gawked at a huge python sleeping in a terrarium. Then - utterly predictably with our family - Griffin started trying to scare us by running his finger up our necks. Lexi squealed.
We kept trucking.
Lexi and Griffin marched past another furry animal in a case. I stopped to look. "Ah, a wolverine," I read out loud. I glanced up to find a museum worker bearing down on me. "A wolverine," she said, brusquely. Right. Just like the sign says. Which I can read. And I just did. Out loud. Ah, museum people, you just like to flaunt your knowledge, don't you? (Its okay. I probably would too if I worked in a museum.)
We passed a door that read "DO NOT BLOCK." It was blocked by a fat trash can. So, maybe museum workers just can't read?
... Okay, perhaps not.
We meandered further down the door-lined hallway. We came to an alcove with an Egyptian mummy stuck in it. Seriously, a mummy in the basement of a museum on the same corridor as a stuffed wolverine? Yeah, bet you didn't see that coming, Egyptian. {I actually wasn't expecting it either, so don't half feel bad about it.}
We ended up turning around with the realization - finally! - that the exhibit we were searching for was, wait for this mind-blowing piece of info, closed for renovations.
We traced our steps back. Past the mummy, the wolverine ("the wolverine"), the sleeping python still curled up, the rumbling doors, the unfortunately-out-of-style bear and wolf, and finally back past the mopping maids.
They stopped talking and looked up at us as we trekked past, amused.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Kroger, Cars, & Kim Jong Il
I was pulling into Kroger. I hadn't been to this Kroger in so long. It is a place that I drive by all the time but for some reason always find a different store to actually shop at. Strange how that happens.
As I pulled into the parking lot a car appeared on my right. My right-of-way, yes. Yes, sir. Sir? Siiiiiir?! See me, please.
He does. Eventually.
We do the little I-brake, you-brake, everyone-brake dance. (Yes, the original break dance.)
But - of course - he is always halfway through the little psuedo-intersection. So, I wave him through.
And there he went.
He had Kim Jong Il's hair. Funny.
He had Kim Jong Il's glasses. I chuckle.
He had Kim Jong Il's shirt on. Unbelievably hilarious.
And I think we all know that one cannot have Kim Jong Il's hair, Kim Jong Il's glasses, and Kim Jong Il's shirt, and not be Kim Jong Il.
(And I don't have concrete evidence, but I have a sneaking sensation that he also had Kim Jong Il's mad driving skills.)
As I pulled into the parking lot a car appeared on my right. My right-of-way, yes. Yes, sir. Sir? Siiiiiir?! See me, please.
He does. Eventually.
We do the little I-brake, you-brake, everyone-brake dance. (Yes, the original break dance.)
But - of course - he is always halfway through the little psuedo-intersection. So, I wave him through.
And there he went.
He had Kim Jong Il's hair. Funny.
He had Kim Jong Il's glasses. I chuckle.
He had Kim Jong Il's shirt on. Unbelievably hilarious.
And I think we all know that one cannot have Kim Jong Il's hair, Kim Jong Il's glasses, and Kim Jong Il's shirt, and not be Kim Jong Il.
(And I don't have concrete evidence, but I have a sneaking sensation that he also had Kim Jong Il's mad driving skills.)
Saturday, October 24, 2009
my grandparents are moving out of state
I remember one time a friend was dropping me off at my grandparents' house. I had spent the day with her, but I don't remember what we did. I don't remember hardly anything about that day. Actually, I wouldn't remember that day at all except for one thing.
We pulled up and I was gathering my bags to climb out. She was talking.
"So, this is where your grandparents live," she said, laughing. "What if I came by one day and knocked on their door and said I was your friend. They would think I was a weirdo, or something."
I said good-bye and started walking up to the house. But something was not right. I was extremely perplexed. I felt like Madame Clavel.
Then it hit me and I laughed. My resolution was much happier than Madame Clavel's and Madeline's. I swung around to see if I could stop my friend, but she was already out of the driveway and driving away down the street.
Of course. She had never met my grandparents before. That was it. Exactamente.
I wished I could have corrected her. I wished I could have told her that if she knocked on my grandparents' door and told them that she was my friend and that she was hungry and needed somewhere to sleep, that they would feed her and give her the choice of beds (not to mention giving her some of the world's best conversation). Actually, even if she didn't tell them that she was my friend, they still would have done the same thing.
Of course.
We pulled up and I was gathering my bags to climb out. She was talking.
"So, this is where your grandparents live," she said, laughing. "What if I came by one day and knocked on their door and said I was your friend. They would think I was a weirdo, or something."
I said good-bye and started walking up to the house. But something was not right. I was extremely perplexed. I felt like Madame Clavel.
Then it hit me and I laughed. My resolution was much happier than Madame Clavel's and Madeline's. I swung around to see if I could stop my friend, but she was already out of the driveway and driving away down the street.
Of course. She had never met my grandparents before. That was it. Exactamente.
I wished I could have corrected her. I wished I could have told her that if she knocked on my grandparents' door and told them that she was my friend and that she was hungry and needed somewhere to sleep, that they would feed her and give her the choice of beds (not to mention giving her some of the world's best conversation). Actually, even if she didn't tell them that she was my friend, they still would have done the same thing.
Of course.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Potatoes Make You Stronger
The Resident Investor and Economist (related to, but not the same as the Resident Law Student) came with me the last time I had to feed the pets .
I found out later that he went to assure that I did not lock my keys and phone inside again. Thanks for that vote of confidence, Griff.
After feeding the sundry animals (aminals as one little girl I babysit calls them; also, there are no enemies, only emenies), we hopped back into the car.
Griffin: "Morgan, I have something to tell you."
Me: "Okay."
Griffin: "You know, Adam Smith in The Wealth of Nations..."
From there the conversation devolved into a discussion on whether oatmeal, potatoes, or wheat make a person stronger (Hi ya, Scottish, Irish, and English peoples of history and all dear ancestors to us). I tried to get Griffin (See! There is an example of our Irish heritage.) to include rice in the argument, but apparently Adam Smith didn't study rice or the Orient. If he had, I am sure he would have thrown his weight behind making Mongolian beef and rice the official dish of England.
From there the conversation moved to the concept of planting just potato crops and the economic benefit that would entail. And then we discussed the "an Gorta Mór," or the Great Irish Potato Famine.
And in classic Morgan and Griffin style, we were in a roiling disagreement over some monstrous point of logical or other by the time we reached home. (Of course, the trip home was only about 3 minutes long.)
{Actually, I am not sure if we were arguing or not, but looking at how our discussions normally run, we probably were. But seriously with ancestry like ours, what is one to expect?}
I found out later that he went to assure that I did not lock my keys and phone inside again. Thanks for that vote of confidence, Griff.
After feeding the sundry animals (aminals as one little girl I babysit calls them; also, there are no enemies, only emenies), we hopped back into the car.
Griffin: "Morgan, I have something to tell you."
Me: "Okay."
Griffin: "You know, Adam Smith in The Wealth of Nations..."
From there the conversation devolved into a discussion on whether oatmeal, potatoes, or wheat make a person stronger (Hi ya, Scottish, Irish, and English peoples of history and all dear ancestors to us). I tried to get Griffin (See! There is an example of our Irish heritage.) to include rice in the argument, but apparently Adam Smith didn't study rice or the Orient. If he had, I am sure he would have thrown his weight behind making Mongolian beef and rice the official dish of England.
From there the conversation moved to the concept of planting just potato crops and the economic benefit that would entail. And then we discussed the "an Gorta Mór," or the Great Irish Potato Famine.
And in classic Morgan and Griffin style, we were in a roiling disagreement over some monstrous point of logical or other by the time we reached home. (Of course, the trip home was only about 3 minutes long.)
{Actually, I am not sure if we were arguing or not, but looking at how our discussions normally run, we probably were. But seriously with ancestry like ours, what is one to expect?}
Sunday, October 18, 2009
"this is a pictorial picture"
I had election judge training this past week. Due to some upgrades in the technology (yes, for reaching the 21st century and having laptops for the judges to use), I had to take the beginner's course, though, I served as election judge/clerk twice this past year.
Older ladies who have been election judges for nearly twice my lifetime had to take the beginner's course also. Inefficient government, you are not very good at making friends.
And the beginner's course was over four hours long, all on one afternoon. (But wait, there's more! You do get one five minute break!)
It was painfully dull and repetitive. It should have been excruciatingly dull and repetitive.
But it wasn't.
You see the dude who teaches the course was accidentally hilarious.
hyjdftrewqtyuiopytr32`
(excuse the above unintelligible typing - I was cleaning my keyboard)
Like I was saying, the man was a laugh and a half.
With an accent that was half-Oriental descendant and half-Texas twang, he dryly led us through the course and exercises.
As he clicked through the slide show, he came to a diagram. "This is a pictorial picture," he said.
My head almost hit the table from my silent laughter. I want a pictorial picture. (Actually, I want an unpictorial picture; that might be worth some money.)
Pictorial pictures for the win.
His tone throughout was completely and unintentionally humorous. And I think - actually, I am terribly afeared - that I was the only one who appreciated it.
As we - quickly? - plodded through the info and worked toward setting the voting booths up and such (honestly, I think every registered voter should have to take this class - then perhaps they will appreciate us and the pain of provisional ballots), he never changed pace. His even-keel nature was Hall of Fame caliber. His veiled sense of hilarity, hilarious.
Four hours was a long time, especially when 90% of the stuff a veteran election judge can do in their sleep. But I really hope that when I'm 75 years old and having to retake the beginner's course because they have added microchip scanners that I get someone who is as hilarious as this dude was.
Or maybe just that I can still appreciate it at that age.
Older ladies who have been election judges for nearly twice my lifetime had to take the beginner's course also. Inefficient government, you are not very good at making friends.
And the beginner's course was over four hours long, all on one afternoon. (But wait, there's more! You do get one five minute break!)
It was painfully dull and repetitive. It should have been excruciatingly dull and repetitive.
But it wasn't.
You see the dude who teaches the course was accidentally hilarious.
hyjdftrewqtyuiopytr32`
(excuse the above unintelligible typing - I was cleaning my keyboard)
Like I was saying, the man was a laugh and a half.
With an accent that was half-Oriental descendant and half-Texas twang, he dryly led us through the course and exercises.
As he clicked through the slide show, he came to a diagram. "This is a pictorial picture," he said.
My head almost hit the table from my silent laughter. I want a pictorial picture. (Actually, I want an unpictorial picture; that might be worth some money.)
Pictorial pictures for the win.
His tone throughout was completely and unintentionally humorous. And I think - actually, I am terribly afeared - that I was the only one who appreciated it.
As we - quickly? - plodded through the info and worked toward setting the voting booths up and such (honestly, I think every registered voter should have to take this class - then perhaps they will appreciate us and the pain of provisional ballots), he never changed pace. His even-keel nature was Hall of Fame caliber. His veiled sense of hilarity, hilarious.
Four hours was a long time, especially when 90% of the stuff a veteran election judge can do in their sleep. But I really hope that when I'm 75 years old and having to retake the beginner's course because they have added microchip scanners that I get someone who is as hilarious as this dude was.
Or maybe just that I can still appreciate it at that age.
Friday, October 16, 2009
now it is time for silly things with Morgan, the part of the show where Morgan does a silly thing
Oh, dear, yes. You bet your bottom dollar, yes. It happens to even the best of us.
This morning, I went over to a neighbors' house to feed their pets (three cats, one beta, and a dog; RIP one frog and one fish since the last time I took care of their pets).
Gorgeous day. Lovely, lovely all the way around.
I pull my hair up and decide not to put my contacts in yet (so, wohooo for Morgan wearing glasses). And I promptly bebop (actually I drove, but it was a bebopping-type of drive) over to the neighbors' house.
{Wave as I pass familiar faces}
At the neighbors' there are two workers working (duh) on building out a covered porch.
So, I hop out of the car - taking my keys, phone, and 'to-do' list.
{Good morning!}
Let the dog out.
Check.
Feed the dog.
Check.
Feed the cats.
Check.
Feed the fish.
Check.
Feed the outside cat.
Check.
Make sure to leave the door unlocked behind you when feeding the outside cat.
Epic failure.
There I stood on the back porch with my keys, including their house key, and phone locked inside the house. (And my coffee locked inside the car, which was just about as disheartening.)
Oh. My. Word.
You see, I normally don't do stuff like that. I have yet to lock the keys in a car or leave my purse somewhere.
Option #1) Walk home - it would take 20 minutes... perhaps my family would get worried and send a posse out to rescue me before too long.
Option #2) Walk to a different neighbor's house, which is in the opposite direction of my house. And I don't even know if they are home. And then my family would arrive at the first neighbors' house and find the car but no me. And maybe they would call the police and National Guard and search for me only to find me safe at a neighbor's house the entire time. And then everyone would call it out as a hoax and... hmhm, this sounds familiar.
Option #3) See if one of the workers has a cell phone.
Eureka.
Then I realize the beauty of them being there. 'Cuz I really didn't want to hitch hike like a hobo today... though, I really did look like a hobo.
I borrow their cell phone. And call home.
Llamando says the phone. Neat a Spanish-speaking phone, thinks I. (Actually, I didn't think that... but anyway.)
I try to be calm on the phone to my mom: "I'VE LOCKED MYSELF OUT AND MY CELL PHONE AND KEYS ARE INSIDE AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO. I CAN'T BELIEVE I HAVE DONE THIS."
("Wait? Where are you?")
"FEEDING THE PETS. AND MY PHONE IS LOCKED INSIDE ALSO. AND..."
("How are you calling me?!")
"I BORROWED A CELL PHONE FROM THE WORKERS. AND..."
You get the gist of the conversation.
She offers to call the neighbor for me because I don't have her number because it is on my cell phone in the house. Technology.
Mothers are indispensable.
So, I sit and wait. Now is when I would like to have my cup of coffee.
I watch the workers use a circular saw to slice through boards at the perfect spot by just eyeballing it. The roof of the future-porch is coming together quickly. One stands on a narrow board ten feet up in the air, fitting the notched boards in their resting place.
My mom calls back. (hmmhmm... bad call Nokia, placing the "silence" button right next to the "talk" button.)
There is an extra key, which I track down. And I let myself back into the house.
Yes, without having to break a window. Not that I would have but if it were a movie that is what I would have done. You know, "if it were for a show".
I rescue my phone and keys. I thank the workers. Profusely.
And I drive home, guzzling my coffee on the way.
This morning, I went over to a neighbors' house to feed their pets (three cats, one beta, and a dog; RIP one frog and one fish since the last time I took care of their pets).
Gorgeous day. Lovely, lovely all the way around.
I pull my hair up and decide not to put my contacts in yet (so, wohooo for Morgan wearing glasses). And I promptly bebop (actually I drove, but it was a bebopping-type of drive) over to the neighbors' house.
{Wave as I pass familiar faces}
At the neighbors' there are two workers working (duh) on building out a covered porch.
So, I hop out of the car - taking my keys, phone, and 'to-do' list.
{Good morning!}
Let the dog out.
Check.
Feed the dog.
Check.
Feed the cats.
Check.
Feed the fish.
Check.
Feed the outside cat.
Check.
Make sure to leave the door unlocked behind you when feeding the outside cat.
Epic failure.
There I stood on the back porch with my keys, including their house key, and phone locked inside the house. (And my coffee locked inside the car, which was just about as disheartening.)
Oh. My. Word.
You see, I normally don't do stuff like that. I have yet to lock the keys in a car or leave my purse somewhere.
Option #1) Walk home - it would take 20 minutes... perhaps my family would get worried and send a posse out to rescue me before too long.
Option #2) Walk to a different neighbor's house, which is in the opposite direction of my house. And I don't even know if they are home. And then my family would arrive at the first neighbors' house and find the car but no me. And maybe they would call the police and National Guard and search for me only to find me safe at a neighbor's house the entire time. And then everyone would call it out as a hoax and... hmhm, this sounds familiar.
Option #3) See if one of the workers has a cell phone.
Eureka.
Then I realize the beauty of them being there. 'Cuz I really didn't want to hitch hike like a hobo today... though, I really did look like a hobo.
I borrow their cell phone. And call home.
Llamando says the phone. Neat a Spanish-speaking phone, thinks I. (Actually, I didn't think that... but anyway.)
I try to be calm on the phone to my mom: "I'VE LOCKED MYSELF OUT AND MY CELL PHONE AND KEYS ARE INSIDE AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO. I CAN'T BELIEVE I HAVE DONE THIS."
("Wait? Where are you?")
"FEEDING THE PETS. AND MY PHONE IS LOCKED INSIDE ALSO. AND..."
("How are you calling me?!")
"I BORROWED A CELL PHONE FROM THE WORKERS. AND..."
You get the gist of the conversation.
She offers to call the neighbor for me because I don't have her number because it is on my cell phone in the house. Technology.
Mothers are indispensable.
So, I sit and wait. Now is when I would like to have my cup of coffee.
I watch the workers use a circular saw to slice through boards at the perfect spot by just eyeballing it. The roof of the future-porch is coming together quickly. One stands on a narrow board ten feet up in the air, fitting the notched boards in their resting place.
My mom calls back. (hmmhmm... bad call Nokia, placing the "silence" button right next to the "talk" button.)
There is an extra key, which I track down. And I let myself back into the house.
Yes, without having to break a window. Not that I would have but if it were a movie that is what I would have done. You know, "if it were for a show".
I rescue my phone and keys. I thank the workers. Profusely.
And I drive home, guzzling my coffee on the way.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
today
Please, excuse the noise while I wrestle the Christmas lights off of a fake palm tree.
No, parfaits? Oh. Please. Dear. Me. Cinnamon roll then? Perhaps. Please. Two. Yes. Two.
Yes, Home Depot dude worker man, I actually do know what I am looking for and I don't need any help. I know I have my Vera Bradley purse and my grande Starbucks coffee ($2.00 - half paid with quarters), but didn't you learn in kindergarten to not judge a book by its cover? Uh huh.
Oh my word. Yes. It has happened. Every single Buc-ee's gas pump is taken. Except one. Hello, is there a hurricane I don't know about? No. Y'all just want to invade my little fav gas station. Sure. I got it. All twenty-gazillion of y'all.
Hello, self-checkout at Home Depot. Meet my coin purse. My wallet has to stop weighing > me. Appreciated.
Kroger - 10 loaves of bread for $10. Sweet. Let's start a PB&J stand. Or become Hanzel and Gretel and walk halfway to Nova Scotia on $20.
Helloooooo, Griffin. That was my iPod with Bethany Dillon playing. Ooooh, yeah, never mind, pumpkin. Just kidding. (if I didn't include this you were going to comment about it anyway... don't deny it)
No, parfaits? Oh. Please. Dear. Me. Cinnamon roll then? Perhaps. Please. Two. Yes. Two.
Yes, Home Depot dude worker man, I actually do know what I am looking for and I don't need any help. I know I have my Vera Bradley purse and my grande Starbucks coffee ($2.00 - half paid with quarters), but didn't you learn in kindergarten to not judge a book by its cover? Uh huh.
Oh my word. Yes. It has happened. Every single Buc-ee's gas pump is taken. Except one. Hello, is there a hurricane I don't know about? No. Y'all just want to invade my little fav gas station. Sure. I got it. All twenty-gazillion of y'all.
Hello, self-checkout at Home Depot. Meet my coin purse. My wallet has to stop weighing > me. Appreciated.
Kroger - 10 loaves of bread for $10. Sweet. Let's start a PB&J stand. Or become Hanzel and Gretel and walk halfway to Nova Scotia on $20.
Helloooooo, Griffin. That was my iPod with Bethany Dillon playing. Ooooh, yeah, never mind, pumpkin. Just kidding. (if I didn't include this you were going to comment about it anyway... don't deny it)
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
fear not - i'll never run away to be a telemarketer
That is one scenario which you need not worry about.
(just in case you ever did, which would be exceedingly strange indeed)
(just in case you ever did, which would be exceedingly strange indeed)
Saturday, October 10, 2009
October... and Holidays... and Such
It is cooler now. Global warming is over for the year.
October's weather arrived nine days late, but that often happens now days with the month and its weather being shipped in separate packages. Just glad it arrived before Columbus Day. Everything gets behind with a three-day weekend. I am sure Columbus would never consent to such a silly fuss for him.
No, for Columbus Day we should not halt the mail service. Instead we should get mail twice during the day, to honor the fact that the mail people get to drive on the beautiful land he discovered for us... sorta of.
See... all these No-Mail-Monday-Holidays are cookie cutters. Columbus Day is treated the same way as MLK, Jr. Day and Presidents' Day. But really - what do Columbus and MLK and the Presidents have in common? (Answer: Nothing. Seriously. Except the fact that they were all men.)
So, why should they have equal holidays? Why can't we have some creativity, people?! Congress can't be that boring (actually they can, but we won't bring that up at this time).
See, one must think outside The Box in every way possible. Of course, this is rather unavoidable half the time now, now that they are shipping The Box separately also.
October's weather arrived nine days late, but that often happens now days with the month and its weather being shipped in separate packages. Just glad it arrived before Columbus Day. Everything gets behind with a three-day weekend. I am sure Columbus would never consent to such a silly fuss for him.
No, for Columbus Day we should not halt the mail service. Instead we should get mail twice during the day, to honor the fact that the mail people get to drive on the beautiful land he discovered for us... sorta of.
See... all these No-Mail-Monday-Holidays are cookie cutters. Columbus Day is treated the same way as MLK, Jr. Day and Presidents' Day. But really - what do Columbus and MLK and the Presidents have in common? (Answer: Nothing. Seriously. Except the fact that they were all men.)
So, why should they have equal holidays? Why can't we have some creativity, people?! Congress can't be that boring (actually they can, but we won't bring that up at this time).
See, one must think outside The Box in every way possible. Of course, this is rather unavoidable half the time now, now that they are shipping The Box separately also.
Friday, October 9, 2009
The Oldest Clock... in the House
I had the two younger brothers last night. We were the only ones at home.
This happens a bit more frequently now that the oldest of the young trio has hit high school. (1997 Remember When (A Nostalgic Look Back in Time) sold separately.)
We were eating supper in the kitchen and solving all the world's problems. And not necessarily in that order.
Of course, an obvious problem arose to be discussed. The issue of having two clocks in the same room, both visible at the same time. We sat there and watch the two clocks in the kitchen, the microwave and oven.
The suspense was lethal. For two of us, at least.
Finally, the microwave clocked turned the minute before the oven clock did.
Held breathes were released.
Seth, with a deep sigh: "That isn't fair."
Morgan: "Hmm... why?"
Seth: "Because the oven clock is older."
Morgan: "Oooh."
Nate: "Yeah, he is older. He came with the house, Mom said."
Morgan: "But what about the microwave?"
Seth: "Remember the microwave that came with the house broke. So this one is newer."
Nate: "Yeah, he is the oldest clock in the house."
Seth: "Yeah, noooo... Mom's and Dad's is older. It was before the house."
Nate: "Oh, yeah. Mom's and Dad's clock is the oldest clock in the house. Yep."
This apparently had been a previous topic of serious discussion for them; one that they had analyzed and mulled over.
And we all know that as children that would have fascinated us also.
This happens a bit more frequently now that the oldest of the young trio has hit high school. (1997 Remember When (A Nostalgic Look Back in Time) sold separately.)
We were eating supper in the kitchen and solving all the world's problems. And not necessarily in that order.
Of course, an obvious problem arose to be discussed. The issue of having two clocks in the same room, both visible at the same time. We sat there and watch the two clocks in the kitchen, the microwave and oven.
The suspense was lethal. For two of us, at least.
Finally, the microwave clocked turned the minute before the oven clock did.
Held breathes were released.
Seth, with a deep sigh: "That isn't fair."
Morgan: "Hmm... why?"
Seth: "Because the oven clock is older."
Morgan: "Oooh."
Nate: "Yeah, he is older. He came with the house, Mom said."
Morgan: "But what about the microwave?"
Seth: "Remember the microwave that came with the house broke. So this one is newer."
Nate: "Yeah, he is the oldest clock in the house."
Seth: "Yeah, noooo... Mom's and Dad's is older. It was before the house."
Nate: "Oh, yeah. Mom's and Dad's clock is the oldest clock in the house. Yep."
This apparently had been a previous topic of serious discussion for them; one that they had analyzed and mulled over.
And we all know that as children that would have fascinated us also.
Monday, October 5, 2009
In Admiration of the Society of Brilliant Hens
It was muggy and humid. I felt a hundred drops of sweat forming on my arms and face.
And it was beautiful. The atmosphere was foggy and dense. The sun was stretching itself up beyond the tops of the lower tree branches. The old barn was wreathed with pillars of sunlight streaming through the fog. I should have brought my camera.
The silhouettes of various farm animals were visible from my seat on the damp, wooden swing set. They bleated, clucked, and neighed in three-part harmony. I could see my younger brother being eagerly surrounded by goats. He definitely had their breakfast.
Then he opened the chicken coop to let out the Society of Hens to spend the day pecking and clucking and reigning supreme in the barnyard.
Their silhouettes bobbled back and forth. Their morning greetings were loud and persistent.
The flock broke out of the barn. Three of them promptly hopped up into the goat trough to scavenge for leftovers. The rest socialized in the patchy grass, pecking and chatting.
There was a white one that caught my eye. Besides reminding me of Carlos William Carlos and The Red Wheelbarrow upon which so much depends, I sensed this chicken was a mischievous one.
I am not sure how the appearance of a chicken can be mischievous, but this one was. And I knew it.
I watched it. It wandered from the group, feigning to peck at invisible bugs. I was amused and curious.
It neared the corner of the barn. Then it glanced back at the group of oblivious hens who were chuckling and scurrying around, thinking of nothing but their stomachs.
The white chicken then turned the barn corner and ran straight toward an opening in the side of the barn where a slat was missing. The chicken never hesitated; it silently ran with the clear intent of reaching the opening before any of the hens realized its absence. It was - for the first time in recorded history, perhaps - a chicken with a mission.
The white tail feathers disappeared into the barn. I smiled.
A hen with a brain. A hen with a plan. Who would have thought?
Then a speckled hen wandered toward the corner. It paused and looked back, then dashed onward toward the opening also. A second speckled hen witnessed this escape attempt, and stumbled-tripped-stumbled-tripped after it.
The two speckled hens sprang through the opening in single file.
The remaining hens pecked at their caterpillars and beetles. They fought over the best spots with petty anger. They would spend the day trying to satisfy their insistent appetites.
And the three in the barn? I think Orwell wrote about them in Animal Farm. Only he mistakenly personified them as pigs.
And it was beautiful. The atmosphere was foggy and dense. The sun was stretching itself up beyond the tops of the lower tree branches. The old barn was wreathed with pillars of sunlight streaming through the fog. I should have brought my camera.
The silhouettes of various farm animals were visible from my seat on the damp, wooden swing set. They bleated, clucked, and neighed in three-part harmony. I could see my younger brother being eagerly surrounded by goats. He definitely had their breakfast.
Then he opened the chicken coop to let out the Society of Hens to spend the day pecking and clucking and reigning supreme in the barnyard.
Their silhouettes bobbled back and forth. Their morning greetings were loud and persistent.
The flock broke out of the barn. Three of them promptly hopped up into the goat trough to scavenge for leftovers. The rest socialized in the patchy grass, pecking and chatting.
There was a white one that caught my eye. Besides reminding me of Carlos William Carlos and The Red Wheelbarrow upon which so much depends, I sensed this chicken was a mischievous one.
I am not sure how the appearance of a chicken can be mischievous, but this one was. And I knew it.
I watched it. It wandered from the group, feigning to peck at invisible bugs. I was amused and curious.
It neared the corner of the barn. Then it glanced back at the group of oblivious hens who were chuckling and scurrying around, thinking of nothing but their stomachs.
The white chicken then turned the barn corner and ran straight toward an opening in the side of the barn where a slat was missing. The chicken never hesitated; it silently ran with the clear intent of reaching the opening before any of the hens realized its absence. It was - for the first time in recorded history, perhaps - a chicken with a mission.
The white tail feathers disappeared into the barn. I smiled.
A hen with a brain. A hen with a plan. Who would have thought?
Then a speckled hen wandered toward the corner. It paused and looked back, then dashed onward toward the opening also. A second speckled hen witnessed this escape attempt, and stumbled-tripped-stumbled-tripped after it.
The two speckled hens sprang through the opening in single file.
The remaining hens pecked at their caterpillars and beetles. They fought over the best spots with petty anger. They would spend the day trying to satisfy their insistent appetites.
And the three in the barn? I think Orwell wrote about them in Animal Farm. Only he mistakenly personified them as pigs.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Why are Homeschool Moms Sending Their Daughters to College?
But first I beg forgiveness. There are many generalizations in the following ramble. I apologize for them - each and every one - but the use of them was vital to concise writing. Furthermore, I use the term "moms", though both parents are implicated in this action. Also, I would like to establish another fact from the very beginning: this post is not aimed at anyone specifically. Please do not consider it to be so in any way, shape, or form. It is simply my honest thoughts on a topic that has been on my heart/mind of late.
How could someone labor daily for nearly two decades on a project only to lose sight of the original goal and purpose in the final phase of work? The thought of such a monumental oversight is appalling. How careless.
And yet homeschool moms consistently send their daughters to college.
For women who have embraced their role as mothers and helpmets, it is beyond puzzling to watch them pour into their daughters desires to pursue degrees and jobs. For women with an astounding knack for thinking outside of the box, they are waiting eagerly in line with society on this one. For women who submissively and respectfully accept the Biblical, God-created and God-ordained concept of gender roles, they seem forgetful of them as their daughters near high school graduation.
Why the disconnect? Why are they serving this disfavor upon their daughters?
Because homeschoolers have a chip on their shoulder. Don't try to deny it; in general, they do. And this chip obstructs the moms' view of the original purpose and end goal of homeschooling.
The chip? It is two-fold.
First, it is about excelling in everything academic and being socially normal; proving wrong the modernist who deems homeschooling a lazy life-style that produces socially inept, slow developing children.
Secondly, it is about parental investment in the student. After investing nearly a score of years in a child, a mom desires for her work to "pay-off". An academically, socially successful child reflects positively on the mom. It proves the mom right in choosing to homeschool in the first place.
If homeschooled girls don't go to college, that will reflect poorly on homeschooling. If they stay at home and learn skills from their mothers, homeschoolers will be laughed out of town. And the girls' brains and intelligence will be wasted.
Homeschoolers must represent at whatever cost, apparently.
The situation is completely nonplussing.
I thought homeschool moms would have been eager to raise up the next generation of homeschool moms. And I think in their hearts they are, but their actions speak of a lack of commitment. And invariably actions impact more than words.
How could someone labor daily for nearly two decades on a project only to lose sight of the original goal and purpose in the final phase of work? The thought of such a monumental oversight is appalling. How careless.
And yet homeschool moms consistently send their daughters to college.
For women who have embraced their role as mothers and helpmets, it is beyond puzzling to watch them pour into their daughters desires to pursue degrees and jobs. For women with an astounding knack for thinking outside of the box, they are waiting eagerly in line with society on this one. For women who submissively and respectfully accept the Biblical, God-created and God-ordained concept of gender roles, they seem forgetful of them as their daughters near high school graduation.
Why the disconnect? Why are they serving this disfavor upon their daughters?
Because homeschoolers have a chip on their shoulder. Don't try to deny it; in general, they do. And this chip obstructs the moms' view of the original purpose and end goal of homeschooling.
The chip? It is two-fold.
First, it is about excelling in everything academic and being socially normal; proving wrong the modernist who deems homeschooling a lazy life-style that produces socially inept, slow developing children.
Secondly, it is about parental investment in the student. After investing nearly a score of years in a child, a mom desires for her work to "pay-off". An academically, socially successful child reflects positively on the mom. It proves the mom right in choosing to homeschool in the first place.
If homeschooled girls don't go to college, that will reflect poorly on homeschooling. If they stay at home and learn skills from their mothers, homeschoolers will be laughed out of town. And the girls' brains and intelligence will be wasted.
Homeschoolers must represent at whatever cost, apparently.
The situation is completely nonplussing.
I thought homeschool moms would have been eager to raise up the next generation of homeschool moms. And I think in their hearts they are, but their actions speak of a lack of commitment. And invariably actions impact more than words.
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